


me, her, and the moon

by jesseabrams



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Peraltiago, The Bet, also realized i havent posted fic in four years, also this was largely inspired by a 1d song, and also never on here, likely, lol, me having way too many emotions about jakes possible thought process, omg, rooftop, so HERE WE ARE...., the bet is one of the best peraltiago episodes prove me wrong, this is cute tho, you cant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-09
Updated: 2019-04-09
Packaged: 2020-01-07 07:13:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18405734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesseabrams/pseuds/jesseabrams
Summary: Jake does not like Amy.





	me, her, and the moon

**Author's Note:**

> based completely & entirely around Jake Peralta's thought process regarding January 14, 2014, on a rooftop in Brooklyn, where he celebrates winning his bet against Amy Santiago.  
> listen to at the end of the day by one direction when reading this btw. or don't. it's just the song that plays in my head when i think of this situation....... also it's the title of the fic

Something about the darkness (and smog, let’s be real) drenching the New York City skyline makes it seem prettier than it is during the day. 

It might have something to do with actually being able to see the lights that stream through the glass windows, or the way that, while some rectangles on the buildings are lit, some are dark, indicating offices are closed or people have gone to bed -- private lives exist within those windows; those little yellow squares meaning something entirely different to each inside. The buildings themselves seem impossibly taller, shinier and newer, like New York was built right now, just for them. 

For Jake and Amy.

In his leather jacket, a button down that does not belong to a tuxedo ensemble, and a pair of jeans that have comfortable wear around the knees, Jake doesn’t mind the slight discomfort his butt is facing from sitting on a box. He also doesn’t mind the amount of money he spent tonight, only to have his attempts at irritating Amy with this horrendously immature date squashed-- _duty calls_. 

Literally. His phone rings-- he gets up and answers.

Duty requests a relief team.

Jake declines.

In his head, he recalls his irritation when Holt told him there’d be need for a stakeout tonight, of all nights. Tonight was for winners; he’d gloriously won the year-long bet he and Amy placed, allowing him to keep his car, and, in addition, take her out on the world’s worst date. That _was_ the plan until, in a dimly lit Shaw’s, his captain told him he’d need to work tonight, which meant he had to change out of his cargo shorts, his suitcoat and bowtie, and Amy out of the most uncomfortable dress, made entirely of a suffocating plastic-cotton blend.

He remembers thinking that, while ridiculous and like every girl he’d ever had a crush on at a bat mitzvah, the blue complimented her skin tone nicely. She looked nice, even when dressed ridiculously. 

He knew this bust would be massive for the nine-nine and the NYPD as a whole and that should’ve excited him. Jake wanted to be a hero cop, the name Jake Peralta attached to a whole slew of incredible, impossible solves, the John McClane of the real life NYPD. Tonight, however, he wanted to be Jake Peralta: insurmountably immature, immaculate in his plans to humiliate Amy on this date, officer being secondary to the rest of his attributes for once.

An hour ago, he’d have wanted nothing more than to get back to his plans. Their mall photo slot was booked and he seriously didn’t want to miss it -- a picture of himself and Amy playing the same saxophone? That’s something _actually_ worth framing and keeping on his desk, not to mention a great story for when he has especially chatty perps that sometimes take more buttering up than usual before confessing. Fast forward time to right now: he’s away from their sitting boxes, fresh off the phone with Captain Holt. He turned down the relief team, which would have allowed time for the awful Times Square serenade he’d prepared a youth choir for. It would have allowed them to get back into his car that Amy said smelled like old cheese, off of this roof, back into vaguely uncomfortable clothes, and on track for the night.

Jake takes one glance over his shoulder at Amy. Amy, her hair neatly in a ponytail, in her sherpa jacket that hugs her shoulders, throwing nuts into her mouth and failing to catch them, regardless of how many she’s actually throwing into the air. Amy, who he’s, for the first time, having a conversation with, that doesn’t rely solely on his wit and how good he is at irritating her. Amy, who’s visage is lit only by the white moon and the one light pole on the roof that casts a yellow hue across her skin. 

That one glance is enough to have his heart pounding. That one glance is enough for him to decide right then and there that denying the relief team was the right move, because right now, his bank account drained of an upwards $1,400 (it’s on credit cards!), there’s nowhere else he’d rather be, and no one else he’d rather be with. 

It’s now that he realizes he has no idea how Amy feels about him. He spends a majority of their time interacting doing his damndest to annoy her, push every single one of her buttons at the same time. Why would she feel any attraction toward him?

Hold up, attraction. Jake’s thoughts drift back to what a pain-medicated Charles said to him at the bar, in a halfway intoxicated stupor: _“Somewhere, deep down, you like Amy. Like her like her.”_

He does not like Amy.

He slides his phone back into the front pocket of his jeans and takes steps back toward the box that was his seat, next to Amy. He sits once again, brows raised at the prospect of just how many of his stakeout nuts are littered on the rooftop, cluttering the area surrounding their feet, some crushed by her boot heels.

“The pigeons are going to have a field day tomorrow,” he laughs, his lips curved upward to highlight his amusement. Amy gives a proud smile in return, a quip of her own, “I figured out that the key is _volume_.”

Immediately following her declaration of discovery, her hand goes up, as do a handful of nuts. Two of which actually fall into her mouth, the rest plummet to the ground, nearly sounding like rain. That and the fact that she’s so damn proud of herself have him laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling when the smile reaches his optics. She’s laughing too, and the two testimonies of glee sound good together. He likes the way their laughter mingles, twirling together as if in harmony, like the sound is slow dancing above them to a song about them that’s not yet written.

Jake doesn’t want to leave this rooftop.

He knows tomorrow at work they’ll return to their childish ways, him vexing her into a prospective oblivion for the umpteenth time, her being _that close_ to being crude enough to hurt his feelings. He likes their natural rhythm and the way they act around each other. They work well together, they’re good at their job. It’s now that he realizes they’re good at this too-- being around each other in a real, communicative way, without jabbing at each other or bickering. For the first time, they’re having a conversation that isn’t about work. They aren’t at each other’s throats or kicking each other under their desks. They’re people, they’re friends, they’re colleagues, they’re Jake and Amy.

Jake and Amy in a brand new way, with more respect for one another than there had been two hours ago. Amy is complex, funny, even, and captivating. Not that he didn’t know that before-- but here, under the moon, his soft gaze doting on her entirely, he truly understands why she has him so entangled.

“There’s movement,” he thinks she says. She says something like that, but he’s wrapped up in his own brain and the way he’s feeling-- which is new. Jake is famously bad at emotions and navigating his own is a dark hole he’s yet to venture down but here, his emotions about something- no, somebody- as familiar as Amy, it seems less scary. He welcomes every overwhelming thought about his detective partner and this rooftop, this night as a whole. And then he’s moving, double checking for his gun while she does the same, taking the stairs near to silently but two steps at a time all the same.

_Hold off on the relief team. We’re already here, and I’m curious to see what happens._

Maybe Jake likes Amy, and maybe that’s okay.

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE TO CRY!!!!!!!!   
> edit: thank you for the comments and the kudos <3


End file.
